Page 122 of Sweet Distraction

“And?” he murmurs against my lips.

“I don’t want to get caught by staff.”

“Staff?” He cups the back of my neck and pulls me back in for another kiss. “Listen to yourself adjusting to this lifestyle. You sound like you were born on a yacht.”

I press my forehead to his and exhale a laugh. “This is crazy, right?” The yacht. The ocean on a random Wednesday in July. The rock star I’m currently straddling. “Like batshit crazy.”

“Only if we pretend it doesn’t feel good,” he says and grinds his hips up, hitting me right where it makes me sigh.

“Oh, please.” I swat at his chest, but he catches my wrist and brings my palm to his lips to kiss it.

The action is so intimate that it takes me aback for a second.

Just long enough for one of the crew members to head over and replace our downed drinks with fresh ones.

“Thank you,” we both say as I shift to sit beside him on his lounger. He’s on his back, I’m on my side, and our fingers of one hand are tangled together as I listen to his heartbeat beneath my ear on his chest.

The fingertips of his other hand trail lazily up and down my back as a seagull squawks overhead. “You ever think about how insane the past months have been?”

“All the time.”

“I mean, you’re on the verge of surviving a national tour, the relentless media attention, a toddler on the road, three rock stars who are sarcastic as fuck, and me.”

Each time he adds on, my grin grows wider. “It’s definitely been a ride.” I press a kiss to his chest. “Life would’ve been a whole lot easier without that last one, though.”

“Funny.”

“I try to be.”

Those fingers of his start tickling my sides until I’m squirming and begging him to stop. He chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

I look up at him and study his face. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle. The way he seems more relaxed today than I’ve ever seen him, like he’s no longer carrying the weight of the world.

Feelings I’ve never had before inundate me. I loved James—with my whole heart—but I never looked at him and felt such adoration. Devotion. Like everything ends and begins with him.

But how is that possible when we’ve only known each other for such a brief time? “It’s the pressure cooker of the situation. It speeds things up and makes everything that much more intense.” Isn’t that what my mom said when I spoke to her last week?

“What is it?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Nothing.”

Panic hits me. Like, I feel this way, but how does he feel? I know this is more than he’s ever had with anyone else—at least according to the guys—and yet . . . what does that mean?

“Come on. Tell me.”

“I don’t think I could ever live this life,” I blurt out, afraid he’s seeing right through me and my thoughts.

His laughter fades. Not abruptly, just slow enough that I don’t register what I’ve said until the silence stretches between us.

I glance over. His expression’s impassive, but his jaw is tense.

“Rocket? What’s wrong? I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything for all that you’ve done for me and the experiences I’ve had.”

He doesn’t respond at first. I study his profile as I prop my head on my hand and wait for him to speak.

When he finally does, he doesn’t look at me. “You really don’t think you could live this life?”

There’s no teasing now. No glint of mischief. Just that slow, burning intensity I’m starting to crave.